Of all cities, Paris
is now the coldest.

What good are the two
bits of twilight tossed
in night's river?

What good is the hinge
on the oak door
those we love most
cannot open anymore?

Celan himself could now
be rainingб on the Seine,

his right words
in many tongues sliding
from slanted roofs,

moving islandward
through the shark-blue
and not to us.